


Arch

by theoddling



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Competence Porn, F/M, Mild Angst, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, followed by actual porn, soft/romantic smut, this escaped me with a mind of its own, unbeta'd and frankly unedited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:55:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23012086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoddling/pseuds/theoddling
Summary: Jaskier enters a competition to try to protect the reader, without telling her so. She quickly discovers there is more to the bard than meets the eye.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 107





	Arch

**Author's Note:**

> I have straight-up never written smut before (once clothing starts coming off the camera wanders over to the fireplace with romantic music and then fades to black DA-style lol) so bear with me on this mortifying and educational experience. I mean, I’m fairly pleased with how it came out, but I’m reading the whole fic with rose-tinted glasses so…
> 
> Good god, y'all what is this length? It got way out of control. I was just planning to describe some lovely musculature...

“This is ridiculous. You’re being ridiculous. You don’t have to do this you know.”  


“Yes I do. He insulted both our honors, and interrupted my best performance yet to do it. That cannot just be let go! Besides,” Jaskier waved his hand in front of his face dismissively, “it’s just a little archery competition. How hard can it be?”  


“Is this a joke to you?” you snapped. “Have you forgotten as part of clearly losing your mind that you agreed to _forfeit_ your _life_ if you lose?”  


“Y/N, darling Y/N. I am asking you to have faith, even if it is just a teeny-tiny sliver of it, in your bard’s skills.”  


“You’re not my bard, you’re Geralt’s.” You shot back without considering it. Pain flashed behind his blue eyes, so quick that you thought you might have imagined it.  


“Don’t be silly. I’ve helped you as much as I have Geralt, and you’ve been grateful for it.” He stuck his tongue out at you childishly. “Admit it, your life would be miserable and dull without me.”  


You softened with a sigh. “That’s not in question. It’s why I’m trying to keep you from getting yourself killed, especially over something so stupid.”  


His growl of frustration would have made the infamous witcher proud, as he stalked out of the room without another word, door slamming heavily behind him.  


You sank down onto one of the wobbly wooden chairs in the suite, resting your elbows on your knees and burying your face in your hands. You weren’t sure how long you sat there, trying to sort out your confused, swirling emotions, and prevent the panic that was threatening from bubbling over. The sound of the door slamming for the second time today made you jump. You sat up quickly, carding fingers through tangled hair in the process and reorienting yourself to reality. A bloody Geralt, standing just inside the doorway, raised a concerned eyebrow, sensing your distress.  


“How’d hunting the something-or-other go?” you asked lightly, ignoring the question on his face.  


Geralt hmmed and began moving about, shedding weapons and armor.  


“Earn enough coin to repair and replenish before we head out?”  


Another hummed non-answer. He moved around the corner and you heard the shuffling of cloth and opening and closing of drawers.  


“Please don’t tell me you’re changing clothes and not bathing first? You’ll just be wasting your time and getting monster guts on your last clean set.”  


A grunt of annoyance; at least this sound had some sort of emotional response if not an informative or verbal one.  


“I was thinking of starting a cult and blackmailing the local lord for robes made of solid gold,” you “mused,” deciding to test whether or not the witcher was actually listening to you.  


“They’ll be incredibly uncomfortable.” You could hear the smirk in his voice and the faint splash of water as he followed your not-quite-instructions to clean up.  


You laughed. “Of course that’s the part you take issue with.”  


“Comfort is important.”  


“Jaskier would disagree and say that dramatic appearance is paramount.”  


“Jaskier is a moron.”  


“You’re not wrong there,” you mutter under your breath.  


“What did he do?” Geralt was suddenly looming (still very shirtless you absently noted) over you and his golden eyes flicked rapidly over your face as if he could read your emotions written plainly there and see why you were so unusually annoyed at the bard.  


“Stupid witcher senses.” You grumbled, angry at yourself for forgetting that Geralt’s advanced hearing could catch the minutest of sounds. “It’s nothing. Please just forget it.”  


“No.” Geralt was now staring your down intensely. “Bitter’s not a good look on you, Y/N. And fear’s not a good smell.”  


You scoffed and rolled your eyes. “Fine. Some complete arse was running his mouth last night while Jaskier was playing in the taproom. Jask took great offense to a few of his comments and stopped playing to call him out. I thought he was going to start a damn brawl. But it turns out his new loudmouthed friend was a noble of some sort, so that turned into a duel, which somehow morphed into an archery competition. One on one, three arrows each. Closest single to the bullseye wins.”  


Geralt said nothing, finishing dressing while you explained yourself, but the question was obvious anyway. ‘That seems too simple. What’s the catch?’  


“If Jask wins, he gets a significant amount of coin and we both get public, formal apologies. However, if he loses, he forfeits his life. I tried to convince him that a few comments weren’t worth it, but he was impossible and refused to listen.”  


Geralt sighed and shook his head. “I’ll talk to him.”  
~  
“You’re an idiot.”  


Jaskier doesn’t even flinch when the familiar rumble suddenly sounds from behind him. He is seated, cross-legged, on a large tree stump, fingers drumming impatiently on his knees. In his anger and haste to escape Y/N before it turned into a fight and one of them said something to truly wound the other, he had left both his lute and his songbook behind. He was sure if went back from them that they would just pick up where they’d left off, so instead he tortured himself by doing…well nothing.  


“Hello to you too Geralt, it’s lovely to see you back from your monster-hunt in one place,” the bard says with a sarcastic cheerfulness. “I always welcome your opinions, so please do go on insulting me.”  


“Y/N is upset.”  


“I…” he sighed. “I know. We had a bit of a row earlier. She’s insistent that I can’t have this competition with Lord Vaughn.”  


“She’s scared for you.”  


He hesitated, trying to fully process the implications of that statement. If Geralt was mentioning her fear then it must be strong enough that…well maybe his assumption that it was just because she thought him incapable were wrong. “Because she refuses to listen or just trust that I know what I’m doing. I didn’t just choose for this to be a contest of skill with a bow on a whim. I won’t lose to him.”  


“Why do you have to compete with him at all? Just let the insults go.”  


“You don’t understand Geralt.” Jaskier grimaced at the almost desperate tone to his voice, pleading with his best friend to be able to read between the lines and not make him say the real reason for his absolute rage the night before and determination now.  


“So tell me.”  


Jaskier sighed, standing and beginning to pace. “Y/N, she didn’t hear the things that Vaughn was saying. She just knows what I told her after when she basically dragged me back to our rooms to keep me from swinging at him then and there, gentleman’s contest be damned.”  


Geralt settled onto the stump that Jaskier had vacated, folding his arms over his chest and raising an eyebrow at the smaller man.  


“He did say a few things about my music, that he’d heard funeral dirges with more energy for example, but I’ve heard worse.” His face darkened. “I was going to let it go, but between songs, I had to adjust a string, and I happened to be near his table and he said…” He bit his lip and tilted his head to back to stare at the grey-clouded sky, an almost exhausted slump to his shoulders.  


Geralt felt a wave of concern, but fought the urge to act on it, wanting to hear the full story before he reacted.  


“I heard him giving instructions to his bodyguard, Geralt. He was going to hurt Y/N, ‘grab her’” his hands made a gesture like quotation marks, “on her way back to the inn. The things he was saying…” Jaskier shook slightly, heartbreak in his tone and rage sparking behind the eyes he leveled back at Geralt, warring for domination of his expression. “I started the fight to distract him, and I’m not letting him get away with it.”  


The witcher snorted angrily at the mere thought of some weaselly coward, or anyone, hurting the girl he had come to view as something of a little sister. But something in the bard’s rigid stance said that he wouldn’t have to worry about protecting her here. Jaskier had also grown obviously fond of Y/N in the time the trio had travelled together and…shit, he realized.  


“You love her.” It wasn’t a question but Jaskier nodded almost guiltily in answer anyway.  


“That’s not really why I’m doing this, though. I would even if it had been a totally different girl this arsehole was planning to hurt. I can’t stand when nobles use their power over others to hurt innocent people. It’s not right.”  


Geralt nodded. “The reward if you win isn’t an apology and coin, is it?”  


“No. I mean we do get coin, but I…I tricked him into admitting what he was going to do, and that he’d done it before. So if I win, he has to publicly admit it. And everyone is talking about this, so the whole town, and his family, will be there…”  


Geralt shook his head incredulously. Jaskier always had a flare for the dramatic, but when he decided to use it for good, rather than something selfish, it was actually impressive. So long as things went to plan.  


“You’re sure you know what you’re doing?”  


“Yes. I have shot before. My father took me hunting when I was as young as eight. Not that I could have actually killed more than a mouse with my little tiny bow back then, but I kept up practice since. Not so much when I’m travelling with you, because there’s no need, but when you leave me on my own…”  


“I’m not going to let you keep getting away with doing nothing now you know.”  


Jaskier sighed. “A small price to pay.”  
~  
When Geralt returned to the suite, he found you aggressively jamming a needle and thread through a ripped pair of his pants, taking your anger out on the mending.  


“Did you talk some sense into him?” you asked.  


“No.” He leaned against a wall with arms folded.  


“Damn it.” You sighed and bit your lip. “I’m not going to watch the contest. He’s being stupid and I’m angry with him and if I go, he’ll take it as support and continue to do reckless, pointless things out of pride and it’s going to get him killed. If he even manages to survive this time.”  


“It’s not as simple as that, Y/N.”  


“Oh really? Then maybe you can explain to me in what world offering to let some noble prick kill you is a logical response to a few petty insults.”  


“It wasn’t about the insults.”  


“What are you talking about? Don’t tell me Jaskier passed through here before and screwed the guy’s sister or something.”  


“No. Not that for once either.” Geralt suppressed a smirk at the jealous note to your comment and the look of relief you had for his answer.  


“Then explain it to me, because he wouldn’t.”  


“It’s not my place. Just know that it was something that does matter, come to the competition, and when it’s over, ask him directly to tell you.”  


“Fine. Be cryptic. Are you sure you’re not a mage of some sort?” You rolled your eyes. “What time is this stupid thing supposed to happen?”  


“Three bells. I’ll meet you there.” With that, Geralt walked back out to do who knew what, and you sat the pile of clothes to be repaired in your lap to wait out what felt like one of the longest hours of your life.  
~  
When you arrived at the field where the contest was to be held, you were shocked and a little intimidated by the crowd that lined the space, pushing and shoving to try and get a better view despite nothing having yet begun. It really did seem that the whole town had turned out for this, and you swallowed, your throat suddenly feeling incredibly dry. One of the innkeeper’s sons spotted you as you stood on your tiptoes to get a slightly better angle to scan the crowd for Geralt. He leaned over to someone else and whispered something in their ear, and suddenly the crowd was parting like a wave and ushering you through to the front and center.  


A trumpet sounded, announcing the arrival of Vaughn and his father, the ruling lord of the region. The older man took a seat on a makeshift throne, sitting on a raised platform, both of which had obviously been constructed specifically for this event. His voice rang out over the crowd in a way you were sure was not entirely natural.  


“My good people, welcome. We are brought here today by a challenge, fairly issued and accepted. My son Vaughn Renault and the stranger Julian Alfred Pankratz have agreed to settle their differences on this field, in an honorable competition. They have mutually agreed to forgo a usual duel in favor of a test of other skills, namely archery. Each man will be given a bow and three arrows. After inspecting their equipment and finding it satisfactory, they will fire their arrows at the target on the other end of this field.” You looked down range at the small set of boards that made up the target and gulped. It seemed impossibly far away. “When all six arrows have been fired, a set of three judges will inspect the target and come to the consensus as to whose arrow is closest to immediate center. That person shall be declared the winner and receive their agreed to reward. Should Master Pankratz win, that is to be a sum of 300 crowns and my son’s formal apology before you all for the perceived slight which has led to this contest. Should Vaughn win, Master Pankratz will be tried and face whatever consequences are determined just for his assault and defamation of a good noble’s name, including so far as capital punishment.”  


The crowd cheered and you shivered. It was bloodlust in their deafening roar.  


“Now we shall identify our judges. First, your illustrious Mayor Gideon.” There was a polite clap as a portly, bald man stepped forward and bowed.  


“The Butcher of Blaviken himself, the witcher Geralt of Rivia.” A more enthusiastic cheer for the legend accompanied Geralt as he uncomfortably stepped forward out of the shadows, nodded briefly, and melted away again.  


“And finally, we are blessed to be graced by the presence of one of the finest merchant-guildmistresses of the Continent who has agreed to balance out our panel and prevent there being any particular bias. Please welcome Mistress Mariette DeLuca.” The crowd greeted the tall, hawk-like woman with a warmer applause than they had given their mayor but less than what they had for Geralt. She bowed gracefully and then stepped back, almost as far into the shadows as the witcher.  


“As today’s challenger, Master Pankratz will be the first to shoot. When you are ready sir?” The lord seemed to look over the crowd, and you noticed the peak of a small tent against the tree-line that you hadn’t seen before. The crowd parted to let Jaskier through, though less politely than they had for you as jeers and jabs were thrown at him.  


The sight of him made your heart stutter and then begin to race, and you found yourself incredibly thankful that Geralt was not standing near enough to distinguish your beat from that of any other (not that he didn’t already have some idea of your feelings for the bard, but he wouldn’t ever let you live this reaction down either). He had chosen to forgo one of his signature doublets, leaving his grey shirt, surprisingly buttoned to the collar for once, exposed. It was tucked more tightly than usual into the high waist of his scarlet trousers, hugging his slim physique, and the sleeves were rolled to above the elbow, likewise tucked carefully to have as little extra fabric as possible.  


You couldn’t help your eyes tracing his form as he made his way to where a member of the town militia stood, waiting to offer him the bow. Before taking it, he picked up the three arrows waiting for his use and inspected them, testing the nocks and tips were secure, brushing the black feather fletchings and nodded briefly, returning them to their place. When he was handed the bow, he ran his fingers gently over the whole thing, tracing the curve of the wood almost reverently, head close, looking for cracks or splinters. There was an intensity to his face, a dagger’s-edge focus that you had never seen before. Your mind wandered briefly to what it would be like to have him brushing along your skin that way, dancing across blemishes and memorizing scars like they were beauty-marks rather than seeking out flaws. You shook yourself out of that daydream before you let it go too far, blushing lightly, just in time for him to nod to the soldier once again, who then stepped away and left Jaskier to begin shooting whenever he was ready.  


He stood sideways, left shoulder pointed toward the other end of the field, and chest facing toward you (and the rest of the crowd), feet firmly pointed in the same direction, perpendicular to the line of his body, spread evenly apart. In one smooth motion, he plucked an arrow from the ground quiver beside him, brought it around the arm of the bow to rest just above the back his left hand, and nocked it firmly on the string. You watched, enraptured, as a second, equally fluid move brought the bow up, shoulders back, arms level and wrist just slightly cocked. His head tilted at the same minute angle; his whole body moved in a steady, deep breath. He paused a moment, sapphire eyes following the line of the arrow in order to aim. His right arm glided back, a perfect line with the outstretched left, until the knuckle of this thumb rested on the corner of his mouth. Your eyes drew immediately to the thick, bulging rope of muscle running along his deceptively slender forearm. You wondered how you had never noticed how toned he truly was, and what those muscles would look like when his hands were put to…other uses.  


Fine muscles twitched, and the bowstring rolled off the pads of his fingers, a resonant thrum echoing around the still field, and the arrow sailed forward in a perfect arch. Jaskier remained frozen in that position, arms up and fingers open, not even breathing, a living statue of rigid lines and sharp angles, each one graceful and precise. Seconds later, a solid thunk indicated that it had hit the wooden boards, but it was too far away for you to see clearly from your angle exactly where it struck. Only then did he move again, shoulders rolling downward as he lowered the bow to load the next arrow.  


He took a few steadying breaths. You watched the muscles of his chest and shoulders shift and ripple under shirt and skin, tensing and relaxing like the ebb and flow of a wave. He repeated the same exacting set of motions, wholly focused on his target. Man and weapon were one and the rest of the world did not exist. You pondered whether you had ever seen something more beautiful and quickly came to the conclusion that no, you hadn’t. You could become trapped in this moment, watching him, looped forever, and you would waste away, content.  


All too soon, his three arrows had been shot. He handed the bow back to the militiaman and retreated to the tent. Your heart twinged, distracted from the moment and sharply aware that he had not once looked for you in the crowd. Did he think you wouldn’t be there? Did he even care if you were or not?  


You watched Vaughn step forward to take his turn and grimaced. The man was dressed in what he clearly thought was an attractive outfit made almost entirely of tight, restrictive leather. His long hair was worn loose and falling into his face. His large black gloves nearly doubled the size of his fingertips. Still, you decided, watching him shoot would only allow you to better appreciate Jaskier’s flawless performance. He offered only the most precursory inspection of his equipment, spending the most time on the arrows, actually tugging on the white fletchings to make sure they would not come off. He shot rapidly, but not carefully; on his second shot you thought you heard the swish of leaves rather than the thunk of wood, but you told yourself it was wishful thinking.  


Once he was finished, the judges walked down the field together. The crowd was quiet, the air thick with tension.  


One minute passed. You could see their figures outlined against the wood.  


Two minutes. The mayor and the merchant faced each other, gesturing in annoyance obvious from even the distance you were at.  


Five minutes passed. You thought you would scream with anticipation.  


Then the judges were walking back, and you breathed a sigh of relief. The lord summoned both competitors to stand before the platform. The judges stood in the middle of the field facing them.  


“So, you have seen the shots. What have you to say?” the lord asked dramatically.  


“We are all in unanimous conclusion. The winner was quite obvious, and in fact even if we chose the farthest of his shots from the center, it would still have been closer than his opponent’s,” Mistress DeLuca explained, her voice raspy and low, the sort you would love to hear telling you a story, but at the moment, the longer she went on the more annoyed you became.  


The lord nodded and Vaughn puffed out his chest, as if they were certain she would be talking about him. You felt your heart drop.  


“Master Pankratz might be one of the best shots I’ve ever seen,” she continued. “And I have seen many great archers in my travels. In fact, I think all of you deserve to see the quality of his shooting and have instructed some of your soldiers to bring the target boards down the field for all to see. I hope that will not be a problem for you my lord.” Her tone indicated that she didn’t actually give a rat’s ass what would or would not be the man’s problem and you instantly held an even greater new respect for her. She gestured to the four men struggling to carry the massive wooden panel closer to the crowd.  


As soon as they were close enough, maybe forty feet away, you could see plainly that Vaughn’s white arrows, though all within the painted circles, were scattered and none closer than the second ring. Meanwhile all three of Jaskier’s black ones were clustered together in a space about the diameter of a coin, just to the right of dead center.  
Jaskier beamed. The lord’s face fell sharply before he schooled it back to neutrality. Vaughn reeled back as if he had been slapped. You laughed, drowned out by the deafening applause from the crowd. Not caring about any kind of propriety or the fact that you had been angry with him, almost before you realized it, you were running across the field to throw your arms around his neck in an exuberant hug. His arms (those arms that you had such a newfound love for) wrapped tightly around your waist, holding you impossibly close with an almost imperceptible flex, as he returned the gesture.  


“That was incredible,” you whispered in his ear, lips nearly brushing against his skin. You felt the flush that heated his skin and smirked privately to yourself before releasing him, though he kept one arm around your waist and did not allow you to take more than a step away from him, causing a matching pink to creep across your cheeks.  


“Very well,” Lord Renault said stiffly. “As Master Pankratz has won, he gets these,” he handed a heavy pouch of gold to a guard who then passed it to Jaskier. “And my son will apologize for whatever he did that made him feel slighted.”  


Jaskier’s eyes narrowed, that beautiful blue turning icy and terrifying as he glared at Vaughn. The other man swallowed heavily.  


“Fine. As agreed between the bard and myself,” he spat the name like it was somehow an insult. “I will admit that our disagreement began because he overheard my making plans to take his little whore there for myself.”  


You sucked in a sharp breath, staring, startled, at Jaskier, for confirmation. His lips pressed into a thin line and his grip on you tightened. You found yourself leaning into that touch, into him, mind spiraling into the worst possible scenarios of how it could have played out, what Jaskier had evidently protected you from.  


“I will also say that she was not the first. There have been three girls I have taken advantage of, and then left to die in the stinking back alleys where I found them.” Vaughn sneered. “But who gives a shit about a few peasant—“ whatever insult he was going to use was cut off by a stone flying from the crowd and striking him in the temple. It was soon followed by others, and shouting, a few people looked as if they were going to push forward to physically reach Vaughn. A few of the rocks went wild, and before you could process, Jaskier twisted the pair of you so that he was bent slightly over you, back to the crowd, shielding you with his own body from the collateral damage.  


“I think that’s our cue to go,” he shouted into your ear to be heard over the crowd.  


You nodded in agreement, grabbing his hand in yours to tug him around the corner of the platform out of the direct line of fire and then down the path back to town.  
~  
You arrived back at the suite, and as the horror wore off, you both collapsed into a fit of giggles at the sheer overwhelming nature of the day, leaning on one another to keep yourselves up, until you gasped and struggled to breathe. A few wheezes later, you were both finally under control and you found yourself slowly drowning in the intense ocean gaze he had fixed on you.  


“Why didn’t you tell me that you were trying to protect me?” You asked, tilting your head to one side in confusion. “I wouldn’t have been such a bitch about everything if you had just…”  


“Because I didn’t want to think about what could have happened,” he admitted, staring at some spot past you. “I care so, so much about you that…I got scared. And I lashed out to fix it. And it was better for you to be angry with me than to get hurt, physically or otherwise.”  


You reached up to brush away a strand of hair that had fallen across his eyes, hand tracing down the side of his face to rest against his cheek. He leaned into your touch and you felt the heat rising on your face again.  


“Jaskier…” you closed your eyes. “Thank you.”  


“I would do anything for you, Y/N.”  


You raised an eyebrow at the implication of that sentence.  


Immediately he jumped away from you as if burned. “I mean I…that is…look I didn’t mean it like…” he sputtered, before sighing and slumping, defeated. “I love you Y/N. I’ve been in love with you, possibly since the first time we met. I don’t want anyone else; I don’t want anything you won’t give. I just…I love you completely.”  


You smiled softly. “I love you too Jaskier. I have for a while, I was just waiting to see if you’d take the hints and realize it. Kinda thought at this point that you had but didn’t feel the same way so you weren’t saying anything in order to avoid the whole mess.”  


“Oh.” He paused a moment as your words sank in. “Oh!” his grin was blinding, and in that second it was the most amazing sight on the continent. Though, if you were being honest, it probably still didn’t top the beauty of earlier. You mind began to wander, so much so that you jumped when his hand curled around your elbow, pulling you back to reality. He laughed, and you flushed a bright red.  


“What could you have possibly been thinking about that had you so distracted right now?” he teased, gently tugging you closer to him, not quite touching yet.  


You smirked, closing the gap and slowly pressing your body to his. Wrapping an arm around the back of his neck, you leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Just the fact that you shooting that bow was about the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.” You couldn’t resist punctuating the sentence with a gentle nip to his earlobe.  


He made a strangled groan and wrapped his free hand around your chin, pulling your mouth to his. Despite the almost aggressive hold he had on you, his kiss was gentle, delicate, questioning, and it was obvious that in reality you had total control. His lips were soft, yet scarred with little lines from fretting at them with teeth over years, and he tasted faintly of honey and sweet cream.  


Taking charge, you kissed back harder, tangling one hand in his hair, tugging on it gently, while the other remained around his neck. He moaned into the kiss; a warmth settled in your stomach, and you immediately wanted more. Wrapping his gorgeous brown locks tighter around your fingers, you broke away from his lips to trail hot kisses and nips along his jaw, settling at the soft skin where it joined his neck, running lips and teeth and tongue over it in starburst patterns that caused the most gorgeously obscene noises to fall from his slightly parted lips.  


“Y/N…” he breathed, tugging at you, bringing you nose to nose with him and holding you there. “I want this. I want you. So badly…”  


You smiled and opened your mouth to respond, but he shushed you.  


“Please let me finish. I want this and you, but only if it’s real. I love you too much for this to be one night of passion and then we part ways or we pretend it didn’t happen. My heart couldn’t take that.”  


“Jaskier, I would never leave you. Not if the world depended on it. What’s the world ever done for me besides give me you anyway?” you smiled softly, tears you couldn’t control welling up in your eyes at the strength of what you felt for him. “What I feel right now is the realest thing there could possibly be. I love you. I want this. I want you. I promise I mean that forever, or as close as we can get.”  


“You have no idea how happy that makes me to hear you say darling.”  


“Why don’t you shut up and show me then?”  


He laughed, letting himself be pulled back in for another searing kiss. His tongue brushed against your lower lip in askance and you immediately let him in. As he carefully explored your mouth, your tongue dancing against his, drinking each other in like air, your hands slid down to fiddle with the buttons on his shirt, opening them up one by one.  


Slowly he backed you up until you hit the door of your room. Never breaking away from him, you groped blindly behind you to find the handle, nearly spilling the two of you to the floor. Giggling into the kiss, you stumbled through the doorway and he kicked it shut behind you. His hands lowered to untie the laces of your dress, slowly sliding the material down your shoulders, and then your sides until it slipped past your waist and dropped, pooling at your feet, sending shivers down your spine as he brushed against the newly exposed skin.  


You broke the kiss for a moment so that you could tug his shirt over his head, tossing it aside violently before reconnecting. Playfully, you ran a hand through the dark curls of hair across his chest, carding through it, nails dragging gently across the skin. He nipped at your lower lip and growled, causing another flush of warmth at your core. One of his hands tangled itself into your loose locks, tugging gently to tip your head back and expose your neck. He trailed kisses down the column of your throat, and then teeth back up it, causing you to moan wantonly.  


He returned his mouth to yours, unable to keep away for long, and began moving you toward the bed. Your knees hit the edge and you fell backwards, him following you down, bracing on his hands to lean over you.  


“Are you sure about this, Y/N?” he asked, pulling back far enough to look seriously into your eyes.  


“Yes. Absolutely yes.”  


“Good.” He smiled predatorily and shifted his attention to your breasts, fondling one and planting teasing kisses on the other, as he ran gentle fingers of his unoccupied hand up and down your side, exploring.  


“Jaskier, please…” you groaned, eyes closed, head back, arching slightly toward his touch.  


Gradually, hands and kisses began to trail lower, ghosting over your stomach, toying at your hips for a few minutes, and then withdrawing completely.  


You whined at the sudden absence of contact and tried to chase it. He laughed. “Patience love,” he chastised, lilting voice giving away his own state with its subtle breathiness. “If I get to have you splayed out and gorgeously naked beneath me, I don’t really want these pants in the way now do I?”  


You propped yourself up on your elbows to watch him kick off his boots and shimmy out of his pants and small clothes. Despite everything, you found yourself blushing and looking away as he exposed himself, finding their way back to his face and the expression of awed disbelief still sculpted on his face.  


He stepped back to you, only to pause, realizing that, while your dress was off, your own boots and underthings were not. Slowly, reverently, his fingers fluttered over your skin and he slid first one boot and then the other off, dropping them to the ground with a dull thud, before moving up to your underwear and guiding that just as gently down.  


“Gods you’re incredible love,” he whispered, gazing down at you.  


“You’re not bad on the eyes yourself, my beautiful bard.” You smiled hazily at him.  


Gently he captured one of your ankles between his hands, ghosting his fingers up and down your calf, each pass creeping further up, until they danced in swirls along your inner thigh and he bent his head to follow the same path, climbing slowly up from your knee, planting little kisses all along the way. He stopped at the crease where your leg met your center and just stayed there. You bucked upward; if he wouldn’t move, you would move yourself to put him where you wanted him. He tsked at you, though you could feel him smile against your skin, bringing a hand to your hip to hold you in place.  


“I said, patience, love.”  


You whined in answer. He kissed you again, somehow managing to flood it with even more passion than even the previous ones, all-consuming. At the same time, he slid a finger into you, swallowing the moan that it drew out of you.  


“So good for me, love,” he whispered, his praise almost a prayer as he trailed his lips downward again, words and kisses mingling into the most enticing of sensations.  


At the same moment his mouth finally, finally came to your core where you wanted it, tongue teasing over the sensitive bud, he slipped a second finger in. Your legs pressing subconsciously closer to him, and as he began to work at you, fingers curling and uncurling, you felt the twitch of his glorious muscles and veins against your skin and imagined the way they were dancing just below his skin. The rush of pleasure at the combination was almost enough to overwhelm you and you keened, arching your back and writhing beneath his ministrations, hands fisted in the thin sheets and catching lumps of mattress filling between clenched fingers.  


“Jaskier, please!” you gasped, barely able to get the words out. He looked up at you, humming gently to call your attention to him (while also triggering an entirely new wave of pleasurable torture which you were sure was intentional). The sight of him between and beneath your legs, having at some point managed to slip down so that your calves rested, framing his neck, was intoxicating. Just as you felt sure the coil within you was about to snap, he withdrew completely.  


You gasped and whimpered at the sudden emptiness, the chill of the room. He chuckled darkly at the desperate noises and pleas of his name that fell from your lips.  


“What’s wrong, my love?” he teased, crawling up the bed to loom over you, smirking down at you, his cock, hot and heavy, now pressed against your hip, and his blown-wide pupils, ringed in only the thinnest stripe of blue. You were momentarily distracted from your desire by the surprise (and underlying that a mild annoyance) that he had managed to remain so seemingly in control, meanwhile you were a mess beneath him.  


“Please…I want…need…you.” You begged, trying to entice him with an exaggerated heave of your breast and by hooking one leg around his, running it up and down calf-to-calf.  


He stared down at you, before bringing his lips to brush, ever so delicately, unfairly so, against yours. “Are you certain?” you detected the note of nervousness behind his confident question, like he was afraid he had done something to hurt you or scare you away.  


You brought a hand up to caress his cheek tenderly, not so blissed out that you couldn’t figure out what he needed.  


“Yes, Jaskier, I’m sure,” you said slowly, holding his gaze with yours. “I want you, need you. Make love to me, please.”  


He gazed at you in awe. You smiled back up at him. He kissed you heartily, tongue joining yours in a needy dance. Slowly, he lined himself up and pressed into you, easing slowly to let you adjust, until you felt skin on skin and knew he was completely sheathed in you. You moaned simultaneously as he began to move. Incrementally the two of you picked up speed, each thrust met with counterthrust, undulating together, hands on every available inch of each other’s skin. The sighs and gasps that filled the room could have come from either of you, or both.  


Suddenly his left hand caught you by the knee and hoisted your leg up so that your calf was braced against his shoulder, shifting his angle to let him thrust even deeper into you, and allowing you to feel the working of each cord of muscle.  


It didn’t take long for him to bring you to your peak and crashing over it, clenching tightly around him with a primal scream. Steadily he continued to move, working you through your orgasm before slowing to a stop.  


You looked at him quizzically, unable to make more than a small noise of confusion, forcing your muscles to contract further in an effort to convince him to keep going.  


“I don’t want to hurt you,” he explained, starting to pull away. “I know that first times can be…overwhelming and—“  


His protests were cut off as you rolled your eyes and decided to take control of the situation instead of letting him fret. Hooking your other leg at his waist, you threw your weight into a quick flip, pinning his back to the bed.  


“Darling, I am not fragile, and you deserve to feel as good as you just made me,” you whispered in his ear, bodies pressed tightly together.  


Experimentally, you rocked your hips and he moaned, yet another new angle changing the feel of your joining in all the best ways. His hands came to your waist, a bruising grip that made you smile. You trailed your lips down the side of his neck, creeping steadily lower until you were able to run your tongue teasingly along the prominent line of his clavicle, planting little, open-mouthed kisses at regular intervals. His fingers trailed up your spine as yours combed through his chest hair and your hips rocked together in a sensual dance.  


“Love,” he groaned, movements stuttering, “Love, I’m going to…”  


You shifted to press your forehead to his, cupping his face between your hands and maintaining eye contact.  


“Jaskier, please,” you breathed, feeling your own climax building, “come with me. Make me yours.”  


Your words pushed him over the edge and you felt the warmth of him filling you, his cries piercing. His unsteady thrusts combined with the sensation and the sound to drag you with him, falling even more powerfully than the first time, stars dancing in your vision as you struggled to catch your breath.  


As if he sensed it, Jaskier’s arms wrapped firmly around your waist, drawing you down lie fully against him.  


You tried to force some sound out, some sort of gratitude, some prayer at the altar of his love but you couldn’t get the muscles of your vocal cords to cooperate and all that came out was a slurred and incoherent mumble.  


“Shh,” he whispered, knuckles rubbing soothingly over your shoulder, lips pressed to your temple. “Just relax. Rest. Let me take care of you. That was incredible.”  


You could feel his voice rumbling beneath your ear, absent-mindedly singing some song or another, lulling you into a blissful sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> If I gave credit to everyone I think deserves it for directly or indirectly inspiring some element of this I’d be here all day. I love this fandom. I love how inspired I have felt by the show, but it is the lovely, lovely people I’ve been lucky enough to interact with on tumblr that I think are really fueling these creative juices.
> 
> PWP. Made possible by my insomnia and by contributions to your Witcher-related tumblr tags by viewers like you. Thank you.


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